A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [224]
He had to stop, sobbing for breath. The sky had turned from black to the color that comes before the light. The dog nosed at him, whining softly in his throat, amber eyes gone blank and dark in the no-light of the hour.
Sweat poured down his body under the leather shirt, soaked the draggled breechclout between his legs. His privates were chilled, shriveled against his body, and he could smell himself, a rank, bitter scent of fear and loss.
Rollo’s ears pricked, and the dog whined again, moving a step away, back, away again, tail twitching nervously. Come, he was saying, as clearly as words. Come now!
For himself, Ian could have lain down on the frozen leaves, buried his face in the earth, and stayed. But habit pulled at him; he was accustomed to heed the dog.
“What?” he muttered, dragging a sleeve across his wet face. “What is it, then?”
Rollo growled, deep in his throat. He was standing rigid, the hackles slowly rising on his neck. Ian saw it, and some distant tremor of alarm made itself felt through the fog of exhausted despair. His hand went to his belt, found emptiness there, and slapped at it, unbelieving. Christ, he had not so much as a skinning knife!
Rollo growled again, louder. A warning, meant to be heard. Ian turned, looking, but saw only the dark trunks of cedar and pine, the ground beneath them a mass of shadows, the air between them filled with mist.
A French trader who had come to their fire had called such a time, such a light, l’heure du loup—the hour of the wolf. And for good reason: it was a hunting time, when the night grows dim, and the faint breeze that comes before the light begins to rise, carrying the scent of prey.
His hand went to the other side of his belt, where the pouch of taseng should hang: bear grease steeped with mint leaves, to hide a man’s scent while hunting—or hunted. But that side too was empty, and he felt his heart beat quick and hard, as the cold wind dried the sweat from his body.
Rollo’s teeth were bared, the growl a continuous rolling thunder. Ian stooped and seized a fallen pine branch from the ground. It was a good length, though flimsier than he would have liked, and unwieldy, clawed with long twigs.
“Home,” he whispered to the dog. He had no notion where he was, or where the village lay, but Rollo did. The dog backed slowly, eyes still fixed on the gray shadows—did they move, those shadows?
He was walking faster now, still backward, feeling the slope of the ground through the soles of his moccasins, sensing Rollo’s presence from the rustle of the dog’s feet, the faint whine that came now and then behind him. There. Yes, a shadow had moved! A gray shape, far away and seen too briefly to recognize, but there all the same—and recognizable by its presence alone.
If there was one, there were more. They did not hunt alone. They weren’t near yet, though; he turned, beginning almost to run. Not in panic now, despite the fear in the pit of his stomach. A quick, steady lope, the hill-walker’s gait that his uncle had shown him, that would devour the steep, endless miles of the Scottish mountains, steady effort without exhaustion. He must save strength to fight.
He observed that thought with a wry twist of the mouth, snapping off the brittle pine twigs from his club as he went. A moment ago, he had wanted to die, and perhaps he would again, if Emily— But not now. If Emily . . . and besides, there was the dog. Rollo wouldn’t leave him; they must defend each other.
There was water near; he heard it gurgling under the wind. But carried on the wind came another sound, a long, unearthly howl that brought the sweat out cold on his face again. Another answered it, to the west. Still far away, but they were hunting now, calling to one another. Her blood was on him.
He turned, seeking the water. It was a small creek, no more than a few feet across. He splashed into it without hesitation, splintering the skin of ice that clung to the banks, feeling the cold bite into his legs and feet as it soaked his leggings and filled his moccasins. He stopped for a split second,